


The Twelve Labors of Dameon Maurva

by Ishti



Series: Rhenegade Spinoffs [1]
Category: Aveyond
Genre: Alternate Canon, M/M, Mythology References, Post-Canon, Resolution, Rhenegade Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 13:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14874413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishti/pseuds/Ishti
Summary: Dameon has some atoning to do. Sequel, part 1.





	The Twelve Labors of Dameon Maurva

**Author's Note:**

> This covers the first three years after the ending of Rhenegade, so it's got Rhenegade spoilers! If you like Lars/Dameon but aren't interested in Rhenegade, this should be fine for you.

Dameon didn’t shave too close anymore. He felt a little silly when he considered how much of his identity he’d wrapped up in the sunlit sheen he could achieve on his bare skin.

That said, he was usually shirtless. After three years, he couldn’t remember whether his boss had ordered it so, or whether he’d decided on it himself. Either way, he wasn’t shirtless just for the mobility.

He caught Lars staring at him more than a few times, usually from open windows high above while he performed some outdoor manual labor task on the ground. It was frustrating to serve Lars like this (especially because he could think of a fair number of other ways in which he would like to serve Lars, but he’d been trying his best to suppress those thoughts), but when he really considered it, he couldn’t think of any place he’d prefer to be. Aveyond was his home. It had always been his home.

Lars was in his home now. When he thought of it like that, he got chills. The good kind of chills, probably; he wasn’t too familiar with chills.

But he couldn’t touch Lars. He couldn’t even speak to Lars. The Oracle had cursed him with selective silence--he couldn’t speak at all when Lars was within earshot, nor could he come near enough to touch. Dameon found this appropriate after what he’d tried to do to Lars. Lars was too strong of will for persuasive corruption to work, of course, but Dameon had _tried,_ and that was why he deserved his punishment.

He deserved it. He deserved not to be able to say _“Good night”_ each night before Lars left the library for bed. He wasn’t entitled to that satisfaction.

It was unspoken but obvious that the Oracle would lift the curse (and allow Dameon to serve the Light in a less humiliating fashion) once he’d completed his twelve trials. Every once in a while, he wished he was moral enough to perform his penance out of a sense of remorseful duty, out of a debt to the Goddess, but the debt he truly aimed to fulfill was far more personal.

His first task, as assigned by the Oracle, had been to _“take care of”_ the bees and the griffons. No big deal. He’d cracked his knuckles and stretched out his arms and slaughtered respectively twenty-eight and twelve before lunch. The Oracle wasn’t satisfied, so the next day, he doubled his efforts. She still wasn’t satisfied. She left for mysterious oracular business reasons the next morning, and Dameon rubbed his temples and rolled his neck, and later, he dragged home four of his griffon corpses by their tails to skin and butcher before dinner. Lars just gave Dameon that disapproving smolder he knew entirely too well and turned away.

It took Dameon a few hours of controlled breathing and expansive mantras to figure out that he was being tested, so he slept on it, and the next morning, he knew exactly what he was supposed to do. He made his bed, washed his face, ate his breakfast, and got to work building an apiary and a catmint garden along the edge of the shrine.

Four days later, he erected a sign reading “NOT FOR BINIS” beside the garden.

The Oracle came back and tutted at him. Apparently, Teacup Town was vacant. Dameon sighed and asked whether he’d completed his first task. The answer was _“Oh, yes, fine, fine. Your second task is to find the binis.”_

He journeyed across Aia over a span of two months before realizing that the binis were masquerading as typical housecats and living in domestic luxury on nearly every continent. They were slippery little things, nearly impossible to wrangle, so Dameon had to return to Aveyond with just a few before doubling his supplies and heading out for more. Rather, that was what he meant to do, before _“Why have you brought them here? I only asked you to find them, not to bring them back.”_

Thus, Dameon completed his second task.

His third task was to catch a hind in Land’s End. He knew he had to be cautious, so he brought some beeswax, but the Oracle wanted it alive, not made of stone, so he’d have to do the job with his eyes shut. He hated not being able to see. Worse yet, Bertha, who lived on the temple grounds now, refused to allow Dameon a ride, and of course the ferries didn't go to Land's End, so he had to _sail._ He didn’t know _how_ to sail. He’d always left that up to his crewmates while pretending to be commanding or otherwise useful. His voyage was a disaster, and it took him nearly four months to bring back the hind after veering off course, losing the hind, and enraging Euterpe, several times each.

Fourth, he had to speak with a sage who lived on the tallest peak in the western highlands. He thought the climb to the top of the mountain was to be his trial, but he was mistaken--speaking to the man was a hundred times more tedious than the week-long climb, and every time Dameon impatiently cut into his monologue to contribute his own thoughts, the man started over from the beginning of whatever the hell he was talking about. It took yet another week for Dameon to get the information desired by the Oracle, and thank the gods he wrote it down, because he’d already forgotten what information she wanted by the time he returned to Aveyond.

Fifth, he was required to clean Bertha’s stable. No amount of training or meditation could have prepared him for that.

Sixth, the Oracle demanded Dameon drive off the marauding squirrels from his modest garden. He tried making a terrible racket, but that wouldn’t do, and then he tried besting their general in hand-to-paw combat, but he was thoroughly trounced. Then, with a desperate prayer to the Goddess that Lars wouldn’t see what he was about to do, he dressed himself up in a straw hat and farmer’s garb, and he made a scarecrow of himself in the yard. (The merciless Goddess did not heed his prayer, and Lars, on his daily walk through the magnoliids, was equally merciless in his mirth and mockery.) To Dameon’s relief, the squirrels were terrified and vacated the property immediately. One squirrel refused to run, instead bowing to Dameon and demanding to be taken prisoner as was customary after defeat in battle. Dameon returned to the shrine in a chewed-up hat and unbuttoned flannel cradling a resolute squirrel.

Seventh, the Oracle instructed Dameon to find the great Eldredth sea serpent and ride it. He had to track it first, studying its past and recent movements, consulting with sailors and cryptozoologists. He wasn’t getting much better at sailing, but at least he could get a reliable heading now and again. It took him months to corner the beast, and when he finally wrestled it into his stern arms, it dove through the waves with ardor. As commanded, Dameon spent a day on its back, whirling and plunging and gamboling, and when he washed up on one of the Veniara isles the next morning, he found himself at the Oracle’s feet, starving, exhausted, exhilarated, ecstatic.

When he got home, he was more than pleased to spend a few days quietly babysitting the fireplace in Lars’ bedroom. He could still feel the chill of the ocean in his bones.

Eighth, he had to load a dozen of the Thaisian head minister’s largest and most robust horses _onto a boat_ and sail them to Aveyond through three separate squalls. He realized the only stable by the shrine was Bertha’s, so he escorted them in and crossed his fingers. By the next morning, all of the horses were gone and Bertha was snoring off a hearty meal.

Of course, that was exactly what the Oracle wanted, so she then told Dameon to visit the Snow Queen and Mountain King, who were having yet another dispute. The Snow Queen believed a fairy toad would win in a fight against a squirrel, and of course the Mountain King favored the squirrel over the toad. Dameon tried to reason with them, rationalizing the merits of each combatant and analyzing the likelihood that either party would win, but the King and Queen would only listen for so long before getting bored; his words held no weight for either monarch. A few frustrated sighs later, Dameon ducked into the Caves of Memory to acquire a fairy toad. He thought he already had a squirrel for the event, but the honorable squirrel decided that he’d been captive for exactly the correct amount of time one should remain captive before attempting escape. Dameon spent weeks chasing the elusive rodent, and he finally trapped it outside Veldt, only then realizing he hadn’t secured the toad before leaving Aveyond.

Once Dameon finally had both animals in his possession, he scheduled a meeting between the Snow Queen and Mountain King (which was arguably more difficult than the acquisition of the animals) and staged the requested contest. The toad was knocked out within seconds.

The tenth trial….

She asked him to retrieve a belt from a cave deep in a lake in the uninhabited wilds of the mainland. There was a massive air pocket throughout most of the cave, so Dameon wouldn’t have to worry about drowning, assuming he could _find_ the cave before his lungs gave out. This cave, however, was dark. It wasn’t just dark; it was _entirely_ lightless--and Dameon was no longer blessed with the powers of light.

The downside of having the Oracle as a surrogate parent was that the most powerful being in Aia knew his greatest fear.

He almost didn’t do it. He nearly decided to spend the rest of his pitiful life growing old in the presence of the man he loved without ever being able to speak, to touch him, to love him. That agonizing prospect may have been what pushed him into action. He couldn’t leave his atonement unfinished; not when the lingering days of his undeserved existence were on the line. Not when he was burning.

He’d watched Lars field quite a number of young pilgrims--no older than thirty, but guessing ages had never been Dameon’s strongest skill--who arrived at the shrine without offerings but with messages ranging from the cryptic ( _“I seek atonement from the sun for the unspeakable things I do by darkness”_ ) to the transparently propositional ( _“I’ve heard all of the rumors about the yadda yadda sun druid and I yadda yadda to see if they were true”_ ). With some, Lars was polite yet distant, but others were granted the grand tour of the temple, through the false-mirrored walls by the crystal pool, down the opulent halls of the once-populous sun priests’ quarters, into the simple yet breathtaking druid’s suite protruding over the cliff like a balcony, only its domed atrium separating it from the sky. And there, of course, they enjoyed the bed with which Dameon was already so intimately familiar.

Dameon had attracted some attention once or twice--usually far more forward, as Lars was the sun druid now and Dameon was essentially a footman on a good day--and that wasn’t such a terrible thing. One young woman kissed him outside the catmint garden. He didn’t protest the kissing, for certain, as he hadn’t physically _touched_ another person in at least a year, not even fingertips to skin--so he kissed her and he touched her skin. She wanted more, though, and he couldn’t bring himself any further. His heart wasn’t in it.

His heart was in a lightless cave in a lake in the wilds of the mainland. So he hunted it.

The voyage took a month once he finally left the shrine, and trekking through forests and marshes took another grueling month. He avoided Thais, stopping only in the minuscule settlements he found here and there. Even with the advice of the locals, the lake proved a headache to find. By the time he stumbled upon it, he wasn’t sure just how long he’d been searching.

He immediately stripped and dove. The water was freezing in the face of the autumn clouds, but all those years of physical training in extreme conditions numbed him to the cold. He swam quickly, circling the edge of the depths, bobbing for air periodically before plunging back in. The cave’s entrance was on the side opposite the spot where he left his clothes and gear. He stared into its blackness before going up for air, and he stared again, urging himself to _just go already_ before he had to swim up for air once more. When he dipped under a third time, he didn’t stop moving. He shut his eyes as he entered.

When he hit the air pocket, he tried not to gasp too loudly, and he felt silly when he realized he was afraid of waking some creature he couldn’t see. There was no way for him to find this belt without feeling for it. He didn’t want to touch anything unexpected--he _hated_ that he couldn’t see where he was putting his hands or his feet. He stepped in something horribly slimy more than once as he inched slowly forward. Pincers clamped at his hand, and he was so startled that he nearly slipped to slam his jaw into the jagged stone. He scrambled to catch himself, but everything was so wet that all he could do was try to force that momentum forward. His heart hammered and his eyes vainly darted this way and that as if they could find some light to guide him.

His hand, flailing ahead, grasped something odd, leathery, and smooth on the floor. His thumb swiped across metal. He’d found the belt.

The next step was calming his panic and trying to turn one hundred and eighty degrees to face the exit, and when he broke the surface of the lake, he vowed to do nothing but slow, meditative breathing on the shore for the next few days.

The Oracle let him keep the belt. He was grateful for that; his trousers were beginning to slip.

Upon his return, Dameon discovered that Lars had grown a little lethargic. Dameon felt as if he could only watch in sorrowful silence, but he had to try something. What he _could_ do, for whatever it was worth, was to lay out Lars’ robes before dawn, seeking out his listlessly discarded shoes and setting them together by his bedside.

Dameon’s next task was to “deal with” the thickening and encroaching forest around the temple. By this time, he had a pretty good idea of what to do. There was no way chopping down trees and uprooting plants would work; they’d come back angrier. Dameon didn’t know whether his plan would work, but he couldn’t think of another plan that would, so he walked to the thickest part of the forest one morning and sat there waiting for three days with only a skin of water. On the third night, the dryad spirit of the forest came to him.

She asked why he was squatting in her forest. He said he wanted to speak with her. She asked why, and he told her he wanted to know why the forest was spreading so quickly.

And then he listened. She started by shouting about the callous humans who had driven away her binis and spurned the squirrels she’d invited to live in the abandoned Teacup Town. Eventually, she started crying, and Dameon held out a hand for her, and she sat with him and wept and told him all about her millennia-long life and the creatures she’d adored and lost. Silently, he processed her emotions, and though he was ill-equipped to empathize, he understood that she was hurt. He told her they would find a solution for her turmoil and that she would feel much better soon. That was exactly what she needed to hear.

The dryad couldn’t leave her forest, so Dameon had to find new friends for her all on his own. It sounded like she preferred sentient creatures small enough to pick up and hold but big enough to bite you if you squeezed too hard, preferably fuzzy. He found the solution on a faraway island called Eldrion. The forests of Eldrion were populated with talking animals, some smarter than others, most quite annoying. The rabbits, on the other hand, were silent--but the gleam in their eyes suggested tremendous intelligence, or at least unparalleled magical acumen. They didn’t seem especially integrated with the loose society maintained by the other animals, so Dameon got to work convincing them to join him on his boat.

A lot of derisive clucking and mooing followed him as he studied the rabbits, stockpiled carrots, and conducted very one-sided conversations while trying his damnedest to emulate friendly nose-twitching. It didn’t matter much to him; he found the whole situation pretty entertaining when he sat back to examine it. The rabbits sailed to Aveyond with him, and he was finally home a full year after he'd last departed.

The forest spirit loved her new bunnies, and together, she and Dameon negotiated hard borders between her territory and the territory necessary for the continued operation of the sun shrine. They sealed with a binding handshake. The Oracle was quite pleased and told him to enjoy supper and the sunset at his leisure. He went to bed with no assignment looming over his head--but this only made him more anxious.

Luckily, he hadn’t long to wait. Blocking his door in the morning was a stack of packages and letters, the one on top neatly addressed in the Oracle’s handwriting, the others blank. An eddy of anxious nausea swam through his stomach when he read the address - _Elini’dana ter Lithir de Aramati, 1 Duranaa Lane, Veldt. To be delivered by hand._

There were seven parcels in the stack. Dameon knew what was coming. He had no choice but to confront it. He sailed south.

Elini rolled her eyes when she opened the door and saw him. “You are still alive.”

“Yes.” Dameon cleared his throat. “I have a delivery for you.”

“You could not simply leave it by the door?”

“The Oracle’s orders were--”

“Oh. Come inside, then.”

Dameon shifted his pack strap further up his (clothed) shoulder and followed her in.

Elini led him briskly to a low coffee table framed by plush sofas and bade him sit on one across from her. She took the package and opened it cleanly with a knife strapped somewhere under her breast. A letter rested atop what looked to be a book. She only scanned the letter, smirking once, before setting the package on the table and folding her hands in her lap.

“You have been with the Oracle in Aveyond?”

“For the most part.”

“What does that mean?”

Dameon absently scratched his head. “She's had me run some errands now and then.”

To his amusement, Elini burst into laughter. “Errands! Oh, Dameon! She has run you ragged, then.”

He chuckled. Something about Elini still put him at ease. “You figure?”

“The Oracle does not have ‘errands’. Were you fighting basilisks? Draining demonic swamps? Building monuments to the sky uphill both ways?”

“Mostly character-building exercises.” Dameon’s half-smile was tinged with irony.

Elini laughed again. “You have emerged a better man?”

“I hope so.”

“Mm. What does Lars think?”

Dameon faltered. “I don’t know. We… don't talk.”

“I will not press.” Elini smiled. “Will you ask me of my life now?”

“Ha. Of course. How are your husbands?”

“Wonderful!” Elini clasped her hands together. “Colin has taken up work at the museum, as he is fond of history and mythology, did you know? And Zanhar is excited to enter his designs in the intercontinental fashion competition this year! Simeon was… _‘scouted’_ by Shadwood Academy, as we discovered he has sword singing powers. I miss him quite dearly, but he wanted so much to go, and I am _happy_ for him.”

“They sound happy. _You_ sound happy.”

“Oh, I am. I have spent these years coming to know and understand them, and I--I believe I may have begun to love them!” She grinned from ear to ear. “If I am feeling love, then I _love_ love! It is a humbling experience to see someone so deeply, and to feel this… _revelry_ in their joys, and to want things for them over yourself. It is beautiful.”

Dameon bit his lip.

The next package to demand delivery was for John, but its address was cryptic, reading only _Pirate John, The Princess. To be delivered by hand._ That was troublesome. It could have meant a tavern, or a shop.

Or a boat.

He spent a few weeks asking at ports whether the ship had been spotted, but no one could give him detailed information about the ship or its crew--until he reached Veniara. In hindsight, he realized he should’ve asked there first. Apparently _“The Princess”_ had sailed west beyond the archipelago. That didn't bode well. Dameon didn't speak any of the far-western languages. He had to travel to the Sedonan docks and catch a ferry west, which left just minutes after he arrived.

Ten days later, he ended up in the harbor of a city he couldn’t pronounce. His heart rate gradually increased on the way. John surely hated him more than Elini did. He wondered whether the Oracle wanted him to deliver parcels to those who wanted to kill him in ascending order of homicidal wrath.

 _The Princess_ was docked two cities south, and Dameon thanked the Goddess she was still there, because it was _hot_ and he wanted to stop walking down the summer roads. He found John in a pawn shop on the marina.

John scoffed in disbelief when he saw Dameon. “They let you out of holy douchebag prison already? Did you get time off for su--”

“I have a package for you,” Dameon cut in through gritted teeth.

“I don’t want it.”

_“A parcel. From the Oracle.”_

“Oh. You should have just said so.” John snatched his coinpurse from the pawn shop counter and led Dameon outside. “Playing delivery boy for the old lady, huh? About as humiliating as you deserve, but I expected better of you.”

Dameon leaned against a post and wiped sweat from his forehead, exhausted and frustrated. “We were never going to see one another again. Why would you expect _anything_ of me, John?”

“Uh, I _died_ for you. Remember?”

“Right… fine. But you're alive now, so…?”

“Spoken like someone who's never _died_ before.”

“Just take the damn package.”

John took the package, a thin thing about the size of Dameon's palm, and set about unwrapping it. Inside was an otherwise plain compass engraved with a flower on the outside. John smiled to see it, his face softening the way it rarely did.

“Thanks for bringing this.”

“Don't bother thanking me.”

“Whatever you say. So… who’s your next delivery for?”

To humor John, Dameon pulled off his pack and sifted through the contents to find the next package marked with an address. “Here we go. It says… _Rhen Pendragon. To be delivered by hand.”_

“Oh.” John's eyebrows lifted.

“No address.” _Does the Thaisian palace even have an address?_ “Guess the Oracle didn't think she’d be hard to fi--”

“John!”

Dameon blanched.

“Hey, vi,” called John, waving her over from _The Princess_. “Look, there's a delivery for you.”

John’s smirk reminded Dameon he would find no friends on his journey. The point of Rhen’s rapier at his throat reminded him that he would find far too many enemies.

_“What. Are. You. Doing. Here.”_

“I have a delivery,” he responded coolly. He hadn’t lost his edge.

“From _whom?”_

“The Oracle.”

Rhen groaned and dropped her sword. “Then give it to me quickly before I kill you without an audience.”

“I’m an audience!” chided John.

Dameon handed her the package. While she tore it open, John leaned over and muttered in Dameon’s ear.

“She doesn't hate you that much anymore. Just hasn't had a chance to forgive you, either. No strong feelings.”

“Her sword tells a different story.”

“I can _hear_ you,” snapped Rhen, struggling with the twine wrapping. “John, gimme your knife. Left mine on _The Princess.”_

John extracted a knife from his jacket and tossed it casually overhand to Rhen, who caught it without looking. She viciously sliced through the twine and ripped off the brown paper beneath. Out of the package unfurled ten feet of hemp rope. John caught it before it all spilled out at Rhen's feet.

“Huh.” Rhen was wide-eyed and dumbfounded.

“It's not fifty feet,” commented John.

They pretty much ignored Dameon after that. He stayed the night in a tiny inn before the arduous journey east to find _Galahad Teomes, 3 Grandiflora Lane, Thais. To be delivered by hand._

Dameon made the delivery by night in an effort to be polite. Galahad was leading the Thais night watch, however, so Dameon had to run around the ramparts a bit before finding him. Their interaction was brief. Galahad didn't speak at all; he merely tucked the letter into his ample breastplate, made eye contact just long enough to glare scathingly, and set about ignoring Dameon.

 _He used to admire me._ The memory made Dameon's stomach sink.

Somehow, reading the words _Te’ijal Ravenfoot-Teomes, 5 New Moon Avenue, Ghed'ahre, Halloween Hills. To be delivered by hand._ made Dameon feel a little better. He preferred outright displays of murderous aggression to the finality of the cold shoulder.

Before he could even greet the bloodsucker herself, he was accosted at the front door by a colossal three-headed dog. He yelped nearly as loudly as it did before throwing aside his pack and stake to wrestle with the thing. Even as Dameon's adrenaline mounted, the beast’s teeth and claws grew more frenzied. Neither could fell the other.

And then, Te’ijal walked up the street.

She gasped. “Cerby! You have found a friend to play with? Are you having a good time?”

With Dameon’s leg in one mouth, the dog barked twice clearly and once muffled. Its tail wagged so powerfully that the wind strained the boughs on a nearby tree.

“Good boy. Drop him so I may say hello!”

In a shower of saliva, Dameon fell to the ground. He shrugged off his pain as he stood, even though his shirt was ragged and bloody. Te’ijal wrinkled her nose and bared her fangs.

_“You.”_

“I have a delivery from--”

“Ugh.” She turned away. “At least my Cerberus enjoys your company. He must be the only one.”

“I--”

“Whatever.” Te’ijal opened her front door, stepped into the frame, and turned to face Dameon again. “Oh… how terribly awkward. Must I now _invite you in?”_

Dameon tried not to grind his teeth. _Come on. Just get through this. Don't make it about anything else._

“I shan’t.” Te’ijal crossed her arms and leaned against the frame. “What is your business?”

“I have a delivery from the Oracle,” he grumbled.

“Oh. The Oracle?” Interest sparked in Te’ijal’s eyes.

Dameon held out the package. It wasn't large, but it was heavy. As he tilted it for her to see, a notecard slipped from the paper. He picked it up.

 _“For book club, meeting October 15, Gavin’s house.”_ Dameon glanced up. “Book club?”

Te’ijal snatched the package and the note. “I see. From the Oracle, after all. Good to see she has truly set you in your place, mortal.”

Dameon said nothing.

“You will leave now. Say goodbye, Cerberus.”

The dog howled a major chord, and Dameon left.

There were two letters left in his bag, and Dameon was out of ideas regarding who the recipients could be. He was a little exhausted. This was the longest he’d ever spent away from Aveyond and, like the child he realized he was, he wanted to go home. He checked the address on the next letter once he reached the Wildwood Tavern for the night. _Peter Baker, 10 West Redwood Boulevard, Sedona. To be delivered by hand._

_Oh, Goddess._

He was going to get stabbed.

It was sweet that Lars gave the manor deed to Peter and his boyfriend. (Fiancee? Husband?) On the way to Sedona, Dameon wondered whether they were able to maintain it on the profits from the fromagerie. When he arrived, however, it was quickly apparent that the fromagerie was beyond flourishing. A shiny new storefront greeted him just inside the city gates, its narrow mulch garden completed by a thriving juniper tree. The sun was on its way down, but the windows of the shop were bright, and Dameon could tell there was a great deal of movement inside; the fromagerie was likely bustling with last-minute customers hungry for a little grana padano on their dinners.

 _All right._ Dameon figured he’d walk to the manor, and if he saw lights in the manor windows, he’d knock, and if he didn’t, he would wait in the park for Peter to pass by on the way home from work. He shivered. For the first time in three years, he felt exposed without his robes or a cloak. These streets felt dangerous to him.

The lights were on. His stomach flopped. He steeled his face against it-- _one motion at a time. One at a time._ He knocked on the front door.

Peter answered with a splutter and a left hook.

Dameon caught himself with his arm before his head could collide with the walkway below the stoop. He groaned as he stood up. That _hurt._ Peter was no cliffside-trained monk, but he certainly had the reflexes to catch one off-guard.

 _“What the hell do you want?!”_ barked Peter, readying himself to bloody his knuckles.

“Peter.” Dameon winced; his lip was cut. “I have a delivery from the Oracle.”

Startled, Peter abandoned his stance. Dameon was worried he was headed for the knives he kept hidden in his waistband, but he just scratched his head and gave Dameon a funny look.

“Running contraband for the higher powers, now?” Peter sniffed. “I’d hoped she locked you up properly.”

Dameon bit his lips together but said nothing as he extracted Peter’s letter from the satchel, careful not to pick up the blank envelope by mistake. As he took a second look at Peter’s letter, he noticed it bore a different seal than the other letters he’d delivered--rather than the Oracle’s signature silver, this wax was gold.

Peter snatched the letter from Dameon’s hand. “Just a letter, then? Fine. Now you can--”

He squinted at the seal.

“--you can come in.”

“Oh.” Dameon raised an eyebrow as Peter turned his back. “Thanks, but--”

_“Come. In.”_

He went in.

The manor looked identical to Dameon’s memories, from the chandeliers to the baseboards to Elini (the cat), who skittered away to hide beneath the familiar couch. It even smelled the same, of raw coniferous wood and a trace of manchego. Without thinking, Dameon took a deep breath. Peter raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, we’ve taken great care of the place. You’re not sitting down, and I’m keeping you in the kitchen, where I’ve moved all the knives around so I know where they are and you don’t. Let’s go.”

In the kitchen, Peter leaned against the dormant stove while Dameon hovered by the opposite wall, watching him slip a blade from his vest and ease open the envelope without damaging the golden seal. As soon as Peter’s eyes scanned the first line of the letter, they softened, his brow creasing gently. He swallowed and cracked a tiny smile.

 _“Well,”_ he whispered.

Dameon pretended not to be interested.

When Peter finally finished reading, he folded the letter carefully back into the envelope and set it on a clear countertop. Rather than acknowledging Dameon, he looked up to the ceiling and exhaled deeply through his nose, letting his smile spread slowly. Dameon heard Peter hum low to himself. After a minute, Peter stood straight once more, crossed his arms, and stared down his guest.

“That was interesting.”

Dameon nodded, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure.”

“Yes. Thanks for bringing it. Tell Lars I wish him the best.” Peter turned away, but just before his face was out of view, Dameon caught his contemplative glance.

 _It’s none of my business._ _Even though it’s clearly about me. None of my business._

Dameon sighed inaudibly and turned to face the window. It was dark outside now, but the lights of the neighbors’ houses and the city beyond still glimmered like fireflies through the glass. There was something comforting, he’d realized, about the proximity of other people. Being alone no longer felt like a relief; it was almost unnerving. He wondered when that started.

His hand brushed against something soft. _Oh--the flowers._

Dameon heard Peter walking about the kitchen behind him, opening cabinets and setting down jars as if he wasn’t there. He, too, was suddenly absorbed in what sat before him to the exclusion of all else. Here were Lars’ flowers. Carnations--red, white and pink, still cheery and bright in their pots nestled in the wrought-iron window box. Dameon hovered his hand over the pleated petals, hazily recalling a three-year-old memory. He closed his eyes for a second, willing through his skin the magic he knew he could no longer employ but somehow feeling the water cool on his fingertips.

When he opened his eyes, the dirt below his hand still dry, he turned immediately to face Peter.

“Can I take this?”

Peter halted in surprise, nearly dropping a plate. “What?”

“These flowers. They were Lars’. Can I take them?”

“Um--well--fine, but… fine.” Peter set down his dishes and waved Dameon off, busying himself with the early stages of dinner. “I’ve been meaning to swap them out for begonias anyway.”

“I’m just taking the red ones.”

“Whatever.”

Gingerly, Dameon lifted the clay pot from the window box in both hands. He felt... something.

“Well.” Peter slapped a ladle onto the countertop. “Can’t have you late for your next delivery, then. Got dinner to make, too. You know where the door is.”

“I do.” Dameon awkwardly shifted the pot into one hand. “Thank you for your--”

“Just go. Thanks.”

Dameon left.

He spent the night in a modest room at the inn with Lars’ flowers and a small carafe of water. There was one letter left. He thought it might be for Talia. His hands shook and his chest panged, so he couldn’t look at the letter that night, nor could he sleep, but the next morning, he had no choice.

He ate breakfast first. Among all else, he’d learned very quickly to procrastinate. The weather was nice. A little cloudy, he supposed. Once he’d scraped as much porridge and porcelain as he could from the bottom of his bowl, he shook the last letter out from the bag and flipped it over.

_Lars Tenobor, Sun Shrine, Aveyond. To be delivered by hand and read aloud._

_Merciless. Bloody. Goddess._

Dameon’s forehead hit the table so loudly that the four other tavern patrons all looked over at his empty, fragile porridge bowl with moderate concern.

How was he supposed to talk to Lars? In _so many_ senses of the question-- _how_ was he supposed to talk to Lars? He couldn’t. Mentally or physically. It wasn’t possible. The Oracle wanted him to suffer til he died.

Regardless, he had to go home. It was his duty. Until the day he was released from his divine boon, serving the shrine was his obligation.

He packed up his things, held the flowerpot close to his chest, and went home.

Giving up was an interesting feeling for Dameon, as he hadn’t done much of it over the course of his life. His stubbornness got him into trouble more than once (most notably that time with the demons) and, for better or worse, he’d never found comparable trouble by deciding to do nothing. This time, though, he did the math, and he recognized that all he _could_ do was nothing. In order to regain his ability to speak to Lars, he had to speak to Lars. It didn’t work.

But after three years, something about giving up didn’t seem so bad when he really thought about it. What did he _feel?_ He didn’t feel as bad as he thought he should. He felt like he should go home and water the hydrangeas. He felt relieved to know he’d be in his own bed soon. He felt angry at the Oracle, but he didn’t feel that much despair. After three years of the same, he felt _ready._

When he reached his bedroom and unpacked his traveling bag, he felt all right. One shirt after another; toothbrush, hair brush, razor, in their respective places. Planning for the day--washing his laundry, dusting the room, wiping the window. Dameon walked through the empty halls, hearing his footsteps echo over the quiet, steady trickling of the sunlight pools.

He took the flowers to Lars’ bedroom and set them by the easternmost window. Warmth rushed through his chest, and he smiled. Smiles came easily now that he didn’t interrogate them before accepting their petition. He knelt and stared at the blossoms for a minute, admiring their vibrancy in red against the periwinkle sky beyond. Carnations, he thought, would always be the second-most beautiful thing he’d ever see.

He hoped Lars would like them. He left to wash his laundry.

It was a little chilly, so Dameon wore a clean shirt while he swirled his dirty clothes through the stream and hung them on a line to dry. His to-do list bent and crinkled in his trouser pocket. Next would be the windows, he decided, before it got too dark; he couldn’t even tell whether it was midday or afternoon behind the thickening clouds. At least it didn’t look like rain. Returning to the shrine foyer, Dameon hummed through his nose--how long had it been since he re-shelved the books in the library? He checked his to-do list.

It wasn’t his to-do list.

 _Did--_ he swallowed-- _did I put this in my pocket? I swear I--_

He collided with Lars.

“Dameon.”

Dameon looked up from the letter, his eyebrows high. The concern on Lars’ face sliced through him, and he suddenly felt everything he didn’t think he felt when he’d decided to give up. _Lars._

“Are you okay? You look kind of, um…” Lars ran a hand through his hair absently. “Agitated.”

Dameon bit the insides of his lip. There was Lars. Here was the letter. There was Lars.

Lars glanced away. “Right, I know you can’t answer.”

They stood in silence for a moment, for whatever reason. Dameon hadn’t been anywhere near Lars in months, nor had Lars spoken to him almost at all in three years. Something was warm. Lars wasn’t leaving, either.

_Fuck it._

Dameon broke the letter’s seal.

“Hang on.” Lars stepped back a pace. “How did you touch--”

“L-Lars.”

Dameon’s voice was rough as if he hadn’t used it at all since the inception of the Oracle’s curse. He blinked something like sleep from his eyes as he read the first line of the letter. Lars pulled back, dumbfounded.

“Lars. I-I have completed the tasks set forth by the Oracle, whose letter I read to you now.” Dameon wet his lips. “I have learned… and… I have grown as you did in your journey to… to save yourself. The Oracle finds my progress satisfactory and thus she releases me from my bondage and my curse.”

Dameon held the paper up to the light from the western window. Before him, Lars’ eyes were wide. Dameon saw red petals peeking from the inner pocket of his robes.

“I, Dameon Maurva… am a free man.”

He lowered the paper and, for the first time in three years, looked Lars in the eye.

Lars looked back.

“You are?” he croaked.

In Lars’ eyes, Dameon saw everything he’d felt over three years reflected like sunlight on the ocean, glinting and rolling. He could barely summon speech from his lungs. “Lars,” he sighed.

“Dameon… you’re really free?”

“I--yeah--yes, I think.”

“You are.”

The letter fell to the floor as Lars swung his arms around Dameon’s shoulders and kissed him with the most tender aggression; a question, a request, a declaration. Dameon wrapped his soul around Lars and gave him the answer.

The kiss ended eventually, but they couldn’t let it end, their noses and foreheads touching as they smiled together and puffed little laughs from their throats, their lips grazing and locking for a second here and there. Dameon suddenly felt like he could cry, but he wouldn’t; nothing he’d had with Lars had been this perfect, so free of fear or confusion, and he wouldn’t cry now. There was nothing stopping them but the looming threat of pilgrims wandering in for two-minute blessings, and right now, it was just Dameon and Lars, Dameon and the man he’d loved since the day they’d met. _Gods,_ he was so in love.

“I just don’t understand how this is possible,” he breathed, Lars’ lips on his cheek. “I had to read it out loud to break the curse--but the curse--”

“Never take anything the Oracle says at face value,” murmured Lars, a snicker laced through his voice. They chuckled together, airily, Dameon’s hands in Lars’ hair.

Dameon took a deep breath, remembering the cool scent of Lars' skin, clean and perfect. He took another, his hands falling. His head felt light.

"Do you forgive me?"

"Oh, Dameon." Lars' voice was barely audible. "I--I forgave you three years ago. I...."

As Lars' voice trailed off, Dameon remembered who they'd both been before they'd left Aveyond to search for Rhen: frightened boys, boys who abused the excess power they'd been granted by circumstance, boys who thought they knew who they were and who they would be. Boys who made mistakes which left ugly, jagged, irreparable scars. Boys who, just like the rest of the world, had no choice but to change, to move on.

They'd both changed, but Lars was still there.

Dameon half-smiled. “Does this mean I can wear a shirt now?”

Lars mirrored Dameon's smile. “Looks to me like you’re already wearing a shirt. Heathen.”

“Oh, no.” Dameon’s chuckle rumbled low, mischievous. “Did I break the Sun Priest’s orders?”

“You did.”

“Will I be punished?”

Dameon grinned at Lars’ speechless laughter and watched the color rise in his cheeks. He snaked his hand down Lars’ neck and beneath the robes at his chest to pluck the red carnation from his pocket. With a little hum, Dameon backed a few inches away and idly twirled the flower beneath Lars’ chin.

“You know, they say that if you hold one of these under someone’s face, you can tell whether they’re blushing.”

“I--” Lars was definitely blushing. “No, they don’t; they don’t say that!”

Dameon stroked the flower down Lars’ face, then his neck; then kissed him again.

“I thought you were smoother than this.”

“Well… normally… yeah, but…”

“Mm?”

“But… gods, Dameon; I’m just… I’m so in love with you I forget how to speak.”

Dameon saw stars. He just smiled. Who needed words, anyway? _Fuck_ words.

“I watched you a bit,” confessed Lars. “You haven’t changed, you know. You’ve just become yourself. I hope you know that.”

And, suddenly, Dameon did.

“Thank you,” he said.

They kissed and smiled and kissed for a minute, Lars leaning on the altar in a way that was probably sacrilegious, but Lars made the rules now, so it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. They could do anything they wanted. Lars’ smile became a grin between loose, scratchy, sloppy kisses, a luxury Dameon found he’d missed.

“Well, altar boy,” Lars whispered. “You _did_ break the rules. I’m afraid your penance will be stiff.”

Dameon’s face grew hot. “I can take whatever you have for me, Your Grace.”

“Oh, it’ll be--it… it’ll--”

They were both snickering now. Dameon pushed Lars’ forehead away. _“Don’t_ say ‘it’ll be hard,’ _please.”_

“I _told_ you; you make me stupid.”

“Maybe,” Dameon purred, “you should just fuck me.”

Lars simpered. “Maybe I’ve been waiting a long time to finally hear you say that.”

“I’ve been waiting a long time to say a lot of things.”

“Oh, really? Like what?”

“I love you.”  _I love you, I love you, I love you._

Dameon savored the wonder in Lars’ eyes before they kissed again, long and slow and a little lusty, and then Lars snatched Dameon’s arm and tugged him through their false mirror door down their marble hallway to their pristine bedroom with a flawless sunset view.


End file.
